


Jump

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Romance, rom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by Sherlock's unhappy face after John and Mary's wedding. Mary doesn't exist in this 'verse, but the general feeling is a similar one to the angst at the end of The Sing of Three.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Jump

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rox712](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rox712/gifts).



> Inspired by Sherlock's unhappy face after John and Mary's wedding. Mary doesn't exist in this 'verse, but the general feeling is a similar one to the angst at the end of The Sing of Three.

The police had taken the drug dealers away, Lestrade had handled the clean-up and had debriefed John and Sherlock and now the music was blaring and people had taken up dancing again and John had sat down at the bar to grab a pint, knowing there would be food later and that was when he noticed Sherlock’s absence. He had caught himself several times these past weeks looking for Sherlock and finding him immediately, no matter how crowded or dark or chaotic it was. The fact that he always immediately knew where to look seemed a logical consequence of living with Sherlock for so long. He automatically looked in the most likely place – most likely for Sherlock, which meant the most unlikely of all most of the time – which made sense to him. But what he didn’t want to think about was the nervousness that came whenever Sherlock wasn’t close. He put it down to not having quite recovered from his absence, but there was more than that – a fierce sense of protectiveness which wasn’t familiar and which became more obvious with each time it happened.

He looked up and immediately caught a glimpse of Sherlock on the dance floor – definitely not the most likely place for him to be. Sherlock looked lost, utterly lost. His hands opened and closed into fists agitatedly while he stood very straight and very solid in the waves of moving bodies.

He looked lost in the way he was dressed, the way his chin was low, almost against his chest, the way his eyes moved quickly through the room, unable to focus on anything but taking in too much too quickly without making sense of it. He almost looked like he were in pain, and John found himself on his feet before he knew what he was doing, making his way through the crowd towards the dark unmoving man.

He stopped two feet away from him, but an elbow in his back transported him much closer, and he found himself almost pressed up against Sherlock, whose face went blank the second he raised his chin and found John right there. “You okay?” John shouted over the music, feeling his feet pick up the rhythm even as he tried to sort out why seeing Sherlock like that had left an uncomfortable heavy weight in his chest.

The weight grew when Sherlock’s eyes fixed on something behind John, and he nodded wordlessly and then took a step back. “We’re done here.” Sherlock turned and moved towards the exit, leaving John to follow him, wondering why in the world Sherlock had even stood there.

The strange feeling stayed with John during the cab ride, and he wondered why it bothered him so much that Sherlock had moved away. Sherlock was not one to move away first, no matter how uncomfortable the situation might be. They had spent hours pressed shoulder to shoulder in tiny spaces waiting for criminals to show their faces. Sherlock occasionally used John as furniture, leaning on him for leverage or using his shoulder to reach higher. Not once had he understood what he meant when John reminded him that some things – like kneeling down in front of John so he could smell the stain on his knees where he had knelt on the grass during a case - weren’t exactly acceptable in public.

But this step back and away from him on the dance floor had almost physically hurt him.

“Were you alright out there?” he finally asked, knowing that Sherlock was about to tell him to ask the question that obviously burned on his tongue.

“Fine. Why shouldn’t I have been?”

“You didn’t move. The music was …”

“Terrible.”

“Dance music. You weren’t even swaying.”

Sherlock’s lips formed something like a smile, but he checked himself again.

“Did you expect me to dance my way towards the bar and let you buy me a drink?” He looked out of the window, away from John, his hands flattened out on his thighs.

John thought about that for a moment, and about Sherlock’s sarcastic remark. “Would you have liked that?” he asked, and now it was his turn to stare out of the window. He frowned at his own reflection, wondering whether he should apologise.

When no answer came he dared to turn around, anger rising inside of him for being so irritated. Sherlock looked at him, calm and composed, like he was waiting for something to happen.

“I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours,” Sherlock then said, his features softening. “Don’t worry about me.”

John nodded, deciding that maybe they both needed sleep and that things would be different in the morning.

He couldn’t forget the image, though – the image of Sherlock looking so lost and so wrong somehow. John felt stupid for wanting Sherlock to not look that lost, but he didn’t even know where to start making sense of this, never mind talking about it.

They entered the flat without speaking and silently ate the dinner Mrs Hudson had left them on the kitchen table, and once Sherlock emerged from the bathroom with his pyjamas on and his toothbrush between his lips, John wondered why he felt so stupid asking him about it.

“Sherlock?” he patted the couch next to him, and Sherlock actually came and sat. He crinkled his nose when he looked at John, undoubtedly distracted by the taste of mint growing too intense to be comfortable. But he didn’t move otherwise. 

“I’m sorry and this might sound stupid, but that wouldn’t be anything new anyway,” he started, catching Sherlock’s disapproving expression for a second before he noticed that he wouldn’t be able to say anything and apparently decided to let it go.

“Have you ever been out dancing?”

Sherlock inhaled some of the toothpaste and started coughing, much to John’s dismay, because it meant that he ran off into the bathroom and remained there for longer than he could possibly need to rinse out and clean up.

“You okay?” he called tentatively, hoping that he hadn’t touched on something from Sherlock’s youth that he had tried to forget and which had now resurfaced. But Mycroft hadn’t been involved in the case, so chances were that that wasn’t the problem.

Sherlock reappeared, without toothbrush, and sat back down, taking a sip from John’s tea only to grimace at the undoubtedly horrible taste of it. John had to chuckle, wondering for what essential piece of information Sherlock had deleted that toothpaste and tea weren’t exactly a tasty combination.

“You’re going to laugh at me,” Sherlock said, and John noticed that he was fiddling with the edge of his t-shirt. Suddenly he looked like a teenager.

“I already did.”

Sherlock frowned and then nodded and then shook his head in quick succession.

“Not like this. Not because …”

“I promise not to laugh.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, and with each second John felt his gaze more intensely, like heat prickling on his skin. When Sherlock frowned, he felt himself blush.

“What are you thinking,” Sherlock demanded, and John couldn’t help but grin.

“Just tell me.” He hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t read too much into his reaction.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and looked away from John. “I really, really like …”

John gasped before he could control himself, and he was mortified to see Sherlock’s expression change to something hard, something defensive, while his own heart started beating much harder than it had any right to and his ears grew incredibly hot and he prayed that Sherlock would keep looking away from his face for just a moment longer so he could pick himself up from the floor and find a way to talk himself out of finding Sherlock’s half-pout incredibly distracting.

“Dancing,” Sherlock finished, his voice low and measured, and John wished for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“Then why didn’t you?” John asked, ignoring the furious blush he knew Sherlock must have noticed when he had turned his face back to him.

Sherlock’s features softened and John relaxed, somewhat.

“There, like this? Never.”

“It’s just that you looked so…”

“Out of place.”

“Lonely.” John frowned at Sherlock’s exclamation. “No, not out of place, just…,” he didn’t know how to explain it, especially not when Sherlock didn’t seem to even see the problem he had at all by excluding himself automatically from everything that was normal.

“You think I should have danced? Right there, with all those imbeciles?”

John snorted and shook his head. “You could have come and made me buy you a drink and asked me for a dance,” he said before he even knew what he was saying.

Sherlock sat up very straight, his fingers had stopped fiddling and his jaw was slightly askew as if he was looking at a puzzle that he knew he could solve if he only set his mind to it.

“You would have danced with me?”

“I would have made a complete fool of myself, but yes, I would have danced with you.” John tried to keep looking at Sherlock even though it became more difficult by the second.

“You can’t dance,” Sherlock stated. Not a question, an observation. How he knew John didn’t even want to guess. Three seconds later he noticed that he should probably feel offended. He didn’t.

“Yes, but still. It could have been fun.”

Sherlock’s sombre face suddenly started positively glowing with glee and John noticed that Sherlock had the uncanny ability to make him even more uncomfortable than he had felt just a moment before, and that had been as uncomfortable as he could remember ever feeling.

“What are you thinking,” he asked, wondering if this could get any more awkward.

Sherlock’s face just grew happier and eventually he got up, walked over to their stereo and he pressed a button. John had expected violin music, or at least something classical, but instead he found the flat drowning Van Halen’s “Jump”.  

John stared at Sherlock for ten seconds flat and then broke his promise. He burst out laughing, but instead of being offended, Sherlock started dancing. All hips and knees and shoulders and John found himself staring once more, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing again.

And then Sherlock leaned forward, took his hand and pulled him up. He didn’t have a choice, and the music was loud enough to silence the voice that yelled at him that this was ridiculous and that people would laugh and the only person who could potentially laugh at him was currently making a fool of himself rocking out to a song that John remembered getting high to during his uni years.

No excuses then, especially not since they had already established that John couldn’t dance, but even when he started to let go, he was painfully aware of how good Sherlock looked like this. The thought of him letting go like that in the middle of that dance floor earlier made John bite his lip, hard.

When the song ended they were both out of breath and giggling and Sherlock pushed the hair out of his eyes and shook his head. “That was terrible.”

“No it wasn’t,” John grinned. “I was terrible. You are bloody good at this. Who knew!”

“Mycroft does, and he knows I would have him murdered in his sleep if he ever told anyone.”

John let himself fall on the couch and reached for his cold tea, and taking a sip. Sherlock held out his hand and John placed it carefully into it. He noticed that the weight had definitely disappeared from his chest. “Thanks for that,” he said, drawing his hands through his hair.

Sherlock finished John’s tea and then sat down next to him. “I trained.”

“Hmm?”

“I took classes in ballroom dance until I was fourteen. A bit of ballet as well.”

“And then?”

“Life, puberty, Accidental deductions.” Sherlock shrugged and leaned back. “It’s truly been a long time.”

John nodded and turned his head to look at Sherlock, noticing that he rarely ever saw him as happy as he looked now. “Can you teach me?”

Sherlock cocked his head and grinned widely. “Now?”

“I remember you said something about sleep but you don’t look tired and I think that Mrs Hudson doesn’t mind since she definitely would have come up by now if she was in and …”

“What do you want to do.”

“I don’t know. What’s the standard dance everyone should be able to do?”

“Waltz, fox trot, the usual.”

“Sounds painful.”

Sherlock snorted. “Let me find something other than Van Halen.”

“Why was that even in the stereo?”

“Satanic messages.”

“Bollocks,” John giggled and shook his head. “You did not honestly listen to it backwards.”

“Never underestimate those who are obsessed enough with something to commit murder because of it.”

“Someone committed murder because Van Halen told them so backwards?”

Sherlock shrugged and looked as if he pitied mankind in general for its collective stupidity. Then he stood and extended his hand again.

“We actually won’t need music for the basics.”

“Okay,” John stood, feeling content and too tired to care about the fact that Sherlock Holmes was about to teach him how to dance in their living room long after midnight.

“I’ll be the man,” Sherlock noted, and then frowned. “I’ll lead. Then, once you understand the basics, you can take the lead.”

“So I’m the woman, huh?” John grinned, and suddenly became aware of how warm and large Sherlock’s hand was, holding his own. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something else, like the fact that Sherlock seemed much taller from this perspective and that if he grew too tired he could very easily lean against him and …

“Left hand on my upper arm.” Sherlock broke through his thoughts and John nodded, placing his left hand on Sherlock’s arm while Sherlock put his right hand on his waist. “This is very basic, and you will notice that the position will change the more advanced the dance becomes.”

John wondered for a second what advanced would entail but then he just nodded and tried to stand as straight as Sherlock did.

“Good, now …” Sherlock told him the steps they would take and eventually he counted for them and they managed a few steps before John pushed Sherlock against the coffee table and they almost fell on top of it.

John noticed that Sherlock looked tired now, and John could feel his body slowly requesting rest as well, but there needed to be at least one try which involved music. So he made Sherlock look for a waltz online and they managed just about five steps before John stood on Sherlock’s foot and he tripped and Sherlock caught him and suddenly he found both of Sherlock’s arms around his back and his body hugged tightly while they still swayed to the music.

“I know that,” John offered, remembering the awkward close dancing that always happened when he had just started chatting to a girl and asked her for a dance that would be fast enough to not imply anything and nine times out of ten the DJ would put a slow song on. Thinking about it now, he remembered that most of his relationships, if he could call his college flings that, had started on a dance floor.

“I’ve never done that,” Sherlock answered a few moments later, and John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock’s back and he hugged him close for a moment. But even when he relaxed again, they still embraced and slowly moved to the music even though the rhythm was completely wrong and then it stopped entirely and they still danced. John had closed his eyes and he hoped that what had made Sherlock look lost on the dance floor was now eradicated and that it wasn’t because Sherlock didn’t want to dance in front of people – show those whom he didn’t trust what made him happy – but that he had shared that bit about himself with him, and trusting him with it.

He inhaled deeply and as a response, Sherlock dropped his head, resting his chin on John’s shoulder. “Is that okay?” he asked, his voice a low whisper.

John nodded, as his voice refused to come up with anything other than a sigh. He couldn’t remember feeling this comfortable and safe embracing someone like that; and then he remembered that he had never hugged someone who was taller than him like this, someone who was so warm and so pliant against his body. Jesus, where had that thought come from?

He suppressed a yawn which interfered with the sudden realisation that it was Sherlock Holmes he was slow dancing with to a silent tune in the middle of their living room. What remained after the yawn was the slightly irritating feeling that he was completely fine with this arrangement. Sherlock yawned as well, and as he exhaled, he pressed his face against John’s neck, tickling him. A wave of gooseflesh rose across his shoulders, back and chest and he shivered lightly. “Sherlock?” he asked, knowing that his body was tired, but not tired enough to ignore the lips that were currently pressed against his pulse point at his throat.

“Hmm?” came a rather belated reply, which told John all he needed to know.

“You are not going to sleep like this,” he stated with a grin, suddenly reminded of the video of a camera man who had befriended a pride of lions and had been tackle hugged by one of them which had found it perfectly normal to remain in that position while the camera man had slowly collapsed under its weight. “Off to bed with you.”

Sherlock lifted his head, shook it lightly and yawned again. His face was a bit flushed and John wondered whether that was the true reason why Sherlock had hidden his face from him.

“That was rather pleasurable,” Sherlock commented, inhaling deeply and straightening his t-shirt.

“Yeah, it was nice,” John nodded. “Thanks.”

“Good night, John,” Sherlock looked and sounded very sincere when he said it.

“And tomorrow, you’ll teach me Tango?” John asked just before Sherlock had reached his room.

He turned around and walked back to John, taking his face between his hands and planting a soft kiss on his lips. “We’ll have to establish the basics before we can advance further,” he said quietly and then he turned and was in his room before John could answer, or react for that matter.

He stood in the middle of the living room, being very sure that tomorrow he would freak out about all of this and wonder if Sherlock had possibly gone insane because of lack of sleep, but then he saw the CD cover of the Van Halen single and he grinned. If Sherlock had indeed meant to do what he had just done, then he would gladly take the jump.

 


End file.
